The Blood Games
by rayningnight
Summary: "No Ministry citizen is ever supposed to enter, but they would sometimes gamble their children anyway." 12 Districts. 24 Tributes. 1 Champion. Let the 74th annual Blood Games begin.
1. District 12

**Summary: **"No Ministry citizen is ever supposed to enter, but they would sometimes gamble their children anyway." 12 Districts. 24 Tributes. 1 Champion. Let the 74th annual Blood Games begin.

**Disclaimers:** Rights for J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury for _Harry Potter_; Suzanne Collins and Scholastic for _Hunger Games._

**Warnings**: Set a millennium or two from the canon Harry Potter timeline, except now with twisted age, background, and more in all characters to fit into the Hunger Games contour; GEN and mostly action/adventure and _maybe_ some romance, but no promises; there'll be politics and explicit violence. Rated T [14+].

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—**The Blood Games—**  
A Harry Potter and Hunger Games Crossover Universe  
_by rayningnight_

Part One: The Tributes

**[ **_**1 **_**]  
****District 12****  
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The sound of thundering footsteps above jolts me awake. I lay still for a few seconds, clutching the threadbare coverlet with knuckles white, trying to recall my dream. It's hazy at the edges, but I distinctly remember a high-pitched shriek, a fiery blur, and a green flash. It's been the same dream since I was young, jumping me in my sleep a fistful of times a month. I'm surprised that I didn't wake echoing the woman's scream to my family; then again, I've already learned from that mistake years ago.

I quickly rise from my cot and narrowly dodge the wooden stairs. I scowl, feeling around for my round glasses. They're at the bedside, cast off from yesterday's exhaustion, and once I blink them on, instantly the familiar shadows sharpen. Even with my short stature, I doubt any other sixteen year old could possibly fit in my cupboard. I always sleep in foetal positions and even then it's tight. Add the fact that, ever since I turned fourteen two years ago, I've been growing like the weeds in my aunt's garden…

I'm still debating whether shooting up is a good thing or not.

I probably would've thought it all brilliant when I was younger, but I now recall being completely vertically challenged to be a whole lot easier. I'm still the shortest out of all my male classmates and a good half of the girls, but I'm quite sure those statistics will change in the following year. The only bright side I figure, if I'm average height, not above or below, I can easily become more unnoticeable in the crowds or otherwise. My lips thin. Harry Hunting's in the past now, but for those imbecilic classes, where instead of perfecting calligraphy or memorizing whatever regurgitation of history the Ministry pukes out, I could probably skive for more productive activities. Speaking of which…

Fishing for Dudley's hand-me-downs underneath my bed and donning a mismatched pair of decrepit dragon-hide boots, I stow my cot quickly into a hidden wall compartment once I'm done changing and check my bedroom once over. Good. Excluding the spiders, it doesn't look like a habituated cupboard, but a rather normal storeroom, with a broomstick, a dustpan, two buckets, a handful of rags, and a large ball of yarn. There's no dust, however.

"Up! Get up! Now!" My door's rapped thrice after my aunt's shrill voice.

I smile grimly to myself. If Aunt Petunia's screeching at this hour, when my internal clock bespeaks of dawn skies and grey sunlight, it's likely for Dudley's case. I wonder if he's having the standard nightmare, or if it's a strange one like mine.

I snort immediately and pocket the grey yarn ball.

I'm wasting daylight with these thoughts.

The door opens without sound and I can already hear Aunt Petunia scurrying upstairs to coax Dudley awake. It won't work, since the whole point is a reprise from the dreams, and she'll be down in an hour before going back up; rinse and repeat. I know Uncle Vernon isn't in the house anymore, but I tread inside the kitchen with ingrained caution nonetheless. Unlike his father, Dudley doesn't get up unless his piggy little nose smells bacon. Briefly I entertain the fantasy of cannibalism since Dudley's obviously a cousin and surely the Ministry won't accept _that _— and then I string the thought that I'm his cousin too.

It's disturbing and I never think of it again.

As I walk to the back door, I notice the tangled mess of dark hair in the window reflection. I grin and the glass reciprocates it. My hair passes my ears and resembles a small black bramble bush, sometimes even catching in that plant along with thistles, cocklebur and whatever else it can, when it can. Growing it out makes it worse, since, the one time I tried it about four years ago, with a number of invectives from Dudley about my personal preferences, the added weight tamed it a bit, yes — but I inevitably looked like a ponce. Absently running a hand through my shorter curls, I'm happier with this outcome than that.

Especially when my own professor scolded me for going into the boy's loo.

The next day, I cut it all off.

Shaking from my thoughts, I head out the door. The house isn't the smallest in the neighbourhood, nor is it particularly larger than the rest. I hazily remember when the Dursley family used to be pedestrians of District 4 before, ironically once I turned four, we were deported into District 12 because my uncle was promoted as the newest Director of Grunnings. New drills were needed in the Mining District, and what better than the transfer of a higher-up to be overseer? Of course, even the Dursley family knew what a 'promotion' to District 12 was in face value. What surprises me most is that that they never protested the 'promotion.'

Then again, no one messes with the Ministry.

So, they made the most of it, using whatever riches they had before and wisely bought one of the symmetrical houses in the middle-class part of District 12, saving the rest for the family necessities like food, clothes, and Dudley.

I'm not included in that equation since I'm just Aunt Petunia's sister's bastard son that should be grateful for the roof over my head and the clean water to drink. My aunt explained to me when I was six exactly why I wasn't allowed food anymore and had to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. I was old enough to work like the miners' children, and if I couldn't, _then_ she'd feed me at least once a week. Food was scarce, she said, and any human could survive months without it.

Never mind Dudley, who couldn't survive hours.

This is the reason why I'm up at this ungodly time: crossing an hour's run to the unchartered territory outside of District 12; it's not some recreational exercise. I pass a few yawning Aurors, who in turn ignore me as I make my way to the Forbidden Forest. The namesake pretty much sums up the whole woodland. All the Districts are separated by a powerful Ward, a brilliant yellow shield that slowly goes transparent as it reaches the top in its semicircle. It's conjured by a Wardscrafter and can be anchored by a Runes Master or some other powerful witch or wizard to separate us from other Districts and the Forbidden Lands: outer wild regions flooded or still affected by the nuclear weapons from the Great Muggle World War. The Ministry says that the Wards are still there for our own safety, to separate the classes to quash rebellious ideas, and to protect us from the carnivorous creatures mutated with radiation and the roaming dangerous beasts of magical origin: chimaeras, dragons, manticores and the like, which apparently have some sort of anti-radiation gene in them.

I'm still not really sure.

The schools in the Districts are strictly watched over and only basic facts of science and maths are given to those who don't need it. District 3 and 5 focusses in mathematics and anything with electricity, Districts 9, 10 and 11 have in-depth teachings in Biology and Chemistry. The Ministry and District 1 and 2 have full access to all details in every subject — including magic.

And everyone has full details in History of Mageía.

Sometime a few hundred years ago, maybe a millennia or two from current date, when Muggles ruled through sheer numbers and technological advancements, and Magicals were hidden in secretive societies, the non-magical civilization went through what they called 'World War III' — the Great Muggle World War — and utterly destroyed themselves. Major landmasses changed shape as the sea levels rose to astounding heights around the planet, and many perished from either 'natural disasters' or World War III's radiation residue in now uninhabitable areas. Fortunately, the Magical community protected whatever areas they could with their impenetrable mystic shields, and small societies survived with food, water, and many magical creatures.

Unfortunately, the Muggles who survived were greatly in their debt — Life Debts, which bound their souls to the ones who saved them, until a Magical deemed them paid.

There are still those ancient Life Debts today.

Not because those ancient Magicals are still alive, since though they live double, sometimes triple the lifespan of the average Muggle, those who sanctioned them are long since dead. In actuality, some witches and wizards managed to trick those they saved to modify the Life Debt into their children, and then their full line. I think that was quite nasty of them to do so, basically turning the lot into soul-bound slaves, even if the majority only for a short time; but if the Muggles brought on the world to its knees and it was the Magicals that did all the work to bring back some semblance of prosperity, I can see how those few wanted some revenge in whatever petty way.

Hell hath no fury like a Magical scorned.

I look over my shoulder as I crouch down near one specific area in the yellowish-clear ward, a compressed path nearly visible from my visits every day that's possible. Aurors pass every once in a while, but since that last squadron had yawned, even though everybody knows that Aurors work in twelve hours shifts at the stroke of midnight or midday, I know it's a signal. Most Aurors are Muggles and Muggle-bloods — or "Muggleborn" if you read the ancient texts: Magicals born from two Muggles, and not uncommonly found with the infamous Life Debt inherited from the forefathers and foremothers — but there are many Aurors who're Half-bloods and Pure-bloods as well.

Mageía is broken into six classes. There are the Muggles who have no magic and who solely live in the Districts, the Muggle-bloods who usually live in Districts 1, 2, 4, and 6, and if powerful and intelligent enough, the Ministry itself. Then there are, of course, the Half-breeds, who have Veela or Giant or whatever Being's blood in them, and tend to live in whatever District or Ministry area they want.

It all really depends on their pedigree.

Just like Half-bloods: the Ministry's lower echelon branches — unless they're birthed from one of the High Families, and thus included in the Pure-blood political stations, or in rare cases, when they're born into some scandal or a lower District. They would immediately be sent to some family in a higher District, like: 1, 2, or 4 — or taken back into their biological family fold, with few exceptions.

These latter four are typically referred to as Magicals — witches and wizards alike.

The last class is considered shameful to all Magicals alive — a Squib. Born from one or both Magical parents, yet having no ability to employ magic through wands or other foci, they're immediately sent to the Districts, whichever District, no matter if they're from a High Family or not. They're considered better than Muggles, yes, but they're below Muggle-bloods, so they're immediately scorned by all. Magicals dislike them because of their wasted pure blood in their veins, and Muggles hate them since, even though they both can't utilize magic, they're still 'higher in standing' because of their former families.

The yellowish tint of the Ward wavers, as it has been for the last hour, but finally, with a static hum that's nearly gone silent as I lean on the balls of my feet, I see the metre-long dollop concealed by a clump of bushes has gone completely see-through. I take a moment to smile before hastily flattening out my belly and sliding under the stretch of the faded shield. Once I'm in the trees, I quickly race across the green foliage at a breakneck pace. I don't like wasting too much time when the Wards are no longer electrified, usually only until three or four hours past midday, because keeping out the flesh-eating creatures or not, they kill all who touch it, even humans. I know wizards are able to fine-tune the Runes so that they don't do that, so I also realize that even if they say the Wards are to keep predators out, it's also to keep the residents in.

Fortunately, the Wards always wear down in this area every day between early dawn and the visit of the Runes Mistress, an old insane witch named Bathsheda Babbling from the Ministry. One time, she locked herself in her home — one of the large houses in the wealthy part of District 12, with the other few Magicals and Aurors as her neighbours — and didn't come for a renewal for a week, leaving the Runes that sustained the Wards to fade. A call to Ministry for a Wardscrafter was in order since, on the fifth day, splotches of transparency littered the brilliant yellow shield, and a dragon had gotten in, killing a dozen households.

That was when I was able find the faded Ward area after realizing what Babbling did exactly for District 12.

I sneeze right then, nearly knocking off my glasses into the rushing ravine from my precarious position on a smooth stone. However, I'm highly coordinated and have quick reflexes, and my fast feet scurries me across the few peeking rocks with no more unnecessary problems. I land on soft sun-kissed moss and quickly jump into full sprint for a quarter of an hour into the shady deciduous forest, dodging poisonous life-forms, dangerously low branches, and growing roots snaking the ground. Finally, to my left, there's the Whomping Willow. I grin. Dubbed for its sentience and actual _whomping _when I first greeted it, nowadays, the old tree seems to have grown fond of me, and only bats away known predators to humans. I think it has something to do with the gifts I usually bring along for it.

For an old tree, the Whomping Willow is surprisingly childish.

"Willow," I say as it lifts me high into its branches with an excited bounce. Sometimes I wonder if I should keep calling the ancient tree 'it' or change to 'she,' but I ultimately never decide.

Once up, I give a quick hug to the middle trunk. "Sorry, but I didn't bring any of Dudley's old toys today."

The Willow deflates, allowing the wind to sway its branches instead of bouncing.

Then I break into a grin, unfurling my hoodie pocket; "But I did bring—"

The Willow instantly grabs my ankle and dangles me upside-down, shaking me like one of Dudley's precious ketchup bottles that won't spill its contents. The blood rushes to my head but I keep laughing, holding back my little present as the Willow throws its typical temper tantrum. I may seem more calm than I probably should when suspended about thirty metres above the ground, but I've always liked heights.

That, and this is routine with the Whomping Willow.

"Sorry, sorry! I couldn't help it!" I tease, finally relinquishing the ball of grey yarn into the air.

The Willow ceases its usual 'admonishment' and gently settles me onto a high, thick trunk. Minutes later, the other hundred smaller branches are completely tangled with my gift, and I can't find the ends of the string. Okay, maybe bringing yarn wasn't the smartest idea. I can't withhold a laugh, however, and the Whomping Willow's leaves quiver, the old tree's equivalent of a huff. I laugh harder.

"You're acting like Filch's spoilt cat! Really, it'll take hours just to untangle you!"

Again, the leaves quiver and the Willow somehow give off a pout.

Laughing hard until my stomach aches, I can't find myself to care that I'm losing balance a hundred feet up. The Willow catches me and shakes with maternal scolding, but I just remark that it's brilliant to start this day off with a bout of happiness. That is, until I realize my stomach isn't hurting with laughter but with growling hunger.

"Uh oh. Sorry, Willow, but I need to go hunting. Do you think the birds could fix you up?" I say until my eyes catch the extreme tangles of grey string two yards below me. I frown. That cluster was like a spun Acromantula web; it'd never come apart without human hand or some other intervention.

I sigh as the Willow shivers sheepishly. "Really, Willow? Sheesh, next time I'll just bring a regular ol' ball."

Grappling the branch above, I swing down and immediately reach for the next and the next, wrists twisting as I curl over one crooked branch and land in a crouch on the lower trunk. The Willow moves most of the leafy branches out of my way that aren't tangled up, so I'm not slapped too badly in the face. However, I do feel a bit of nervous anticipation when I leap from branch-to-branch as they travel around me like the cogs of a clock, because I really don't want to fall and go _splat_. Running a hand through my hair after the dark curls fall into my eyes, I sit down on a stilled trunk, feet dangling, until I throw myself backwards with my legs curling over the stiff branch so that I'm suspended upside down as I reach the tied up cluster beneath it.

"There you go," I say right as the yarn web slackens. From my vantage point, I see a few more clusters of intricate loops and impossible knots, so I climb and swing to them as well. Half an hour passes and I see the web around has loosened dramatically, so I begin whistling a few notes. I leap into a more comfortable position, the Whomping Willow encircling my for a bit in a thankful tree-hug as I keep whistling patiently, a haunting melody I can't recall where I learnt from.

Suddenly I see it, a hundred metres away: a speck of moving black. As the blackish blur grows bigger and clearer, I see seven blurs behind it as well. I grin, waving my hand welcomingly and stop whistling as a symphony of hoots reciprocates my call.

"Snuffles!" I cry as the large black owl lands on my shoulder. Snuffles, a black owl speckled with brown and with large amber eyes, did exactly what I named her after — she snuffled into my hair. I laugh at the action and wish I could hug her, but I know owls don't really appreciate human ways of affection, unlike the hug-lover Whomping Willow.

I met Snuffles on my first trip into the Forbidden Forest, finding the large owl with a broken wing and unfortunate limp. I fixed her up, and ever since, she's always helped me out whenever I'm in the Dark Forest: my hunting partner. She's quite intelligent for an owl, and when she had her first litter of eggs, I found her owlets just as intelligent when, like their mother, they could understand human speech. I've never known Snuffles' first mate, but her second one was surely some great white owl, because two years ago, her last litter had included a sheer white owlet with her mother's eyes and none of her mother's feathers.

And right then, three blackish-brown owls, two brownish-black, one black and one white, alight in front of me in perfect order, practically replicating an Auror's stance with their backs stiff and wings down and beaks up. It's seriously adorable, but I'd never say so, because I'm sure the five male owls would take offense and what kind of bloke uses the word "adorable" in a sentence?

"Greetings, troopers." I recall the phrase from Dudley's telly, the only electronic the Dursleys kept from selling when they left District 4.

The seven owls blink at me in innocent confusion, as I'd known they would, and I'm momentarily undecided whether to continue or cut into the matter.

I do the latter. "I need some help with untangling Willow here," I gesture around and above, before turning the Snuffles, "so could you owls help a bloke out with that while I go hunting? I need a good haul for—" My stomach growls angrily and I immediately flush.

The old black owl snuffles into my side, nipping my ear affectionately and I know it's a yes. I turn to the order of owls and each of them nods — a human gesture I taught them since I don't think I could take eight loving nips and not come unscathed— except for the white female.

She's bigger now, as is her family, and I hadn't named any of Snuffles' owlets since I was sure they would all leave on their own. But independence was damned when all of them grew fond of me, and they found it easier anyway to live together and hunt together and share prey like a human family. I mentioned it to them once, that human parallel, but they simply hooted and attacked me mercilessly in disagreement.

Just like what the white one was doing now.

"Ow, hey, hey! Blimey, if you don't want to help, it's fine! But it'll be you taking it up with Willow here— hey!"

The white owl huffs and settles before me with a stubborn glint in lambent yellow eyes. I frown in confusion until I realize as she ruffles her tail feathers.

"You wanna go hunting …with me?" I manage incredulously.

She hoots with an owl's equivalent of a grin.

I look up and I see Willow already has a bow and sheath of arrows in its freed branches. I don't understand how it works, but the Whomping Willow somehow shifts one of her branches into these weapons for me whenever I'm there, ever since I mentioned one time that I needed something better than throwing knives a year after we grew closer. I required a longer range, and though I knew I could throw things farther than any normal person probably could, my body's natural physique isn't strength, but endurance. I was only lucky that I could run as fast as my prey to actually be able to throw weapons at them, but I struck gold when I managed to procure some horsetail for the Whomping Willow to use.

I was sure the Willow had been magical before, but the crafting cinched it.

Really, how could a tree sharpen its own twigs into arrows that could kill? Didn't you need more than pure wood to craft a bow and arrow properly? On that matter, how does a tree even know what a bow and arrow _looks _like?

From then on, childish tendencies or not, I knew the Whomping Willow was old. _Old, _old.

But that didn't change my attitude.

"Okay, really, Willow? That thing's nearly the same height as _me_. How in Merlin's name do you think I'll be able to bloody _move_ in the Dark Forest, let alone hunt?"

The Whomping Willow tree shrugs.

I choke my incredulity of: _How does a bloody tree know how to shrug? — _and channel it into my argument, waving around wildly.

"No, really, I don't believe it's even possible to run around with that _thing_. What was wrong with the old model? Or the one a few years ago, that crossbow or something?"

The Willow doesn't answer — technically, it can't, but if the tree wanted to, she could have answered in some way, I'm sure — and it simply drops the weapons onto my lap. A breeze whispers through the Willow's leaves and the tree is no longer moving. I huff. When the Whomping Willow stills all sentient movement, it's practically the tree's version of rolling over in bed to La La Land.

Turning over, I see that while I was arguing with Willow, the owls had begun untangling the ancient tree and the white little one was still in front of me, blinking amber eyes intelligently. I narrow my eyes, not once falling for the innocent act, and the white owl hoots in laughter and takes off. Instantly, I climb down and run after, arrows strapped with leftover vines as a makeshift quiver, a rather large potato sack I traded for several years ago over my shoulder that's snatched quickly from the underbrush, and clutching the stupid …longbow.

The hunt is on.

Hours pass, maybe longer, but I can now see the radiant sun high in the sky as I'm munching on some wild berries to stave off the sharp hunger. I'm sure it's way past morning time. The white owl helped kill a few rounds of squirrels with no little pride and I managed three ducks and two geese — and a soon-to-be a passing stag, an amazing haul I would say. But there's something strange as I set the arrow free and sprint to its prone form. I don't get why I feel terrible for its loss, with the cycle of life, me _being _a hunter for a reason, hunger an all that… But I do. I truly do, as I gaze into lifeless black eyes and up sharp arched antlers and over beautiful blood-stained pelt. I sigh. The fur will fetch a nifty Knut if I wash most of the red away before the blood hardens, but as I quickly manoeuvre to the lake with the white owl above, who lugs two large squirrels in her claws with surprising ease, I realize I haven't even pulled the arrow out of its bleeding heart. I couldn't even look at it.

I shake off the strange pity — it's _dead_ already — and, once at the lakeside, I mercilessly rip and toss the arrow over my shoulder along with any leftover sentiments, keeping my eyes locked forward as I clean the blood away, watching wisps of reddish-brown smoking in the clean blue water that's soaking my trousers. The white owl somehow succeeds shoving her two squirrels into my potato sack, which isn't completely full yet, and she skims over the black lake for the leaping fish. I smile.

Truly, the Dark Forest is a beauty. Forbidden or not, looking up at the tall trees scraping the open skies, rolling mountains to the north, crystalline waters snaking soft earth, and even the company of too-intelligent owls and of a crazy, sentient Willow — all of it almost makes me forget about the Dursleys, District 12, the Ministry, even Mageía in general.

But considering the daylight hour, it doesn't make me forget the Blood Games.

The reaping.

Today.

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Leave a review, maybe some ideas/spotters for grammatical stuff (since I don't have a beta) and maybe a little looksie into your thoughts...? Thanks —rayningnight


	2. The Reaping

—**The Blood Games—**  
_by rayningnight_

Part One: The Tributes  
**[ **_**2 **_**]  
The Reaping**

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Diagon Alley is bustling with life. Flanking the sides are the dingy workshops, trading stalls, and that _aliveness _accompanying any sort of magical place. The black market operates in between all houses that are tall enough to seclude any shady activity and, ironically enough, the marketplace cuts diagonally across the alleyways of District 12. No one could afford the lofty apartments advertised in the middle of town, and for those who could, they'd rather live in the wealthier quarter and pay similar prices for quality housing. Apparently, though, a group of Aurors regulated to Headquarters 12 couldn't find any more room there, and without much choice, they relocated into the derelict apartments.

It's kind of sad that it was the law enforcement who founded the black market.

No one blamed them, though. Before Diagon Alley was established, all Aurors ate on rations from the Ministry or whatever the stuffy storeowners up in the wealthier quarter could overprice and cater off. Granted, the sweets up there's pretty brilliant; I stole a spoonful of Dudley's eleventh birthday ice-cream cake that Uncle Vernon managed to procure several years back, and to this day, nothing has tasted better than leftover chocolate-chip mint.

"This place is _amazing!"_

I'm not the only one to look up at the exclaim, and though most businesses are closed by this time on reaping day, Diagon Alley is still quite busy. I already bargained all the ducks I caught this morning for some good bread, the geese for salt and vegetables that I could never hope to find in the Forbidden Forest, and the two squirrels are long gone for some kind-looking woman who didn't mind trading a thumb-size bottle of healing salve.

I'm still wondering about that awfully too-good-to-be-true snitch as I watch this bushy-haired girl gape and stare and point around the black market with her parents in tow. She's grinning, showing rather large front teeth with wide brown eyes showing a vague light of intelligence underneath her excitement.

I almost smile. First-timers. School and work is not required on reaping day, and though I skive a lot, I can remember what most of my classmates look like. This girl, Harmony or something, is a temporary-transfer student from one of the wealthier Districts since her parents — a pair of quite prestigious dentists (for a Muggle couple at least) — are needed for the multitude of Aurors and Magicals who apparently bought some treat that had too many chemical sugars in it — banned from the Ministry, but District 10 and up hadn't heard yet — and the family will be leaving in the following week.

"Oh my, what a beautiful owl — a snowy owl too — I wonder how that breed managed to get all the way here… hello? Is that owl for sale?"

I blink back into reality and realize that Harmony came up to me, her parents still haggling with the stall to my left. She begins braiding the ends of her brown curls nervously when I don't reply quick enough, so I crack a smile as I look over at the white owl hooting indignantly on my shoulder.

"No, sorry." As the girl stares curiously at me and the owl for a good minute, I quickly scramble for something friendly to say.

Too late. She steps forward, head tilted. "Does she have a name?"

I blink and shake my head.

"But, you're keeping her, correct?"

I pause and turn to the white owl on my shoulder, quirking a brow. Somehow, looking into large amber eyes, I feel calmer even in the presence of this stranger.

The white owl shadowed me (after I handed the bow and arrows back to Willow) since Snuffles and the other five already left by then. I'm still unsure how she managed to stay in the potato sack without my notice, but when I opened up the meat bag, she flung out like Dudley's slingshot and barrelled into my side like a child grabbing their mother. I didn't have the heart to shoo her out, so she stayed by my shoulder-side, staring eerily at all who talked to me with bright eyes and flapping like some sort of street-fighter at those who tried to swindle me.

Right now, those too-intelligent eyes are filled with surprising affection as she nips fondly at my ear.

I huff, not quite a laugh, but close enough. "I guess so."

"Well, then she _must_ have a name! If she stays with you, you can't just call her 'white owl' or 'girl' or whatever you have so far." Harmony says quickly, forwardly and a little too _in-your-face_, but I ignore that. In class, she speaks that way too, blunt and bossy, but I'm sure she doesn't mean to be. Unlike a certain fat relative of mine.

I nod to her remark and tilt my head to the side, staring into bright amber. "How about Amber? Her eyes—"

"What?! Of course not! That's a terribly normal name for a magnificent owl — you should name her something majestic, something _unique,_" Harmony says huffily with her finger wagging.

"Well, I don't suppose you have a better idea?" I say waspishly and immediately feel bad at the hurt look flashing in her eyes, and quickly amend. I'm never great with people in general. "I mean, _my _name is Harry and that's as bland as any common name can get, and yours—"

"Hermione Granger," she replies quickly, and though I'm mortified for thinking her name wrong this whole time, I can't comment because she keeps bludgeoning on, "and yes, your name is a bit bland, but it sound quite nice when put together — I bet you have a nice middle name too — mine's Jane — and since my first name is quite long, it doesn't sound quite right when put together with 'Hermione' and my surname, because then it's a mouthful, however, this owl won't be sporting any last name, maybe your own, but most pets don't, so we should think of something better than simply 'Amber' since she won't have anything to continue on with."

She says all this very fast, and I briefly wonder how she managed to say all that in a breath before shrugging. "Well, if you can think of something better, then go on—"

Suddenly Hermione whips a large hardcover out of nowhere and begins flipping through the delicate pages. "Well, when in doubt, procure a book! It's certainly a better way — ah _ha!_ How about Rowena? That is a brilliant name if I do say so myself and—"

The white owl flaps off from me and looks over my merchandise as I pull the brunette back and quickly grit out, "Is that a _magic _book?" I ask incredulously.

Hermione looks at me as I would sometimes look at Dudley. "Of _course _it's a magic book! I'm a Muggle-blood witch, you see—"

Instantly I shush her, "Be quiet!"

"Why? Wait, are you one of those nasty ones who hate magic? Because I'll have you know—"

"I don't have anything against magic, Miss Granger,_ but_ _Argus Filch the Squib next door to me does!_" I finally have her behind my stall from wandering eyes. "If he sees that book, he'll rat out that you smuggled it here!" I murmur fervently, tilting back my head twice just a bit obviously to the stall to my right. Argus Filch is a nasty man that has curious taste with oils and fish, who hates everything to do with magic and everyone in general. The only reason he's even allowed into Diagon Alley is because no one wants him to tattle to the Ministry, what with his family connections.

Hermione deflates and a dusting of pink shades her cheeks. "Oh… sorry…"

I muster a small and hopefully reassuring smile. "It's alright. Just watch out. Eyes are everywhere, and though everyone knows most of the trades around here aren't really legal, this is as safe as you can get from the authorities."

Hermione nods, but still pushes the book _A History in Magic: Ancient Europe_ into my hands. "Just take a peek and choose a name for her …please?" Hermione glances over at the white owl, who's been keeping watch, surprisingly, over my stall with a sharp gaze, before turning big-brown puppy eyes on me.

I lose all sense of fight, not for the first time wondering why she seems so insistent on naming the predator bird when she wasn't even keeping her, but flip to a random page anyway and luckily something immediately jumps at me.

"Hedwig."

Instantly, the white owl looks up, as if the name was always meant for her, as if she's always known that was her name. Hedwig, the amber-eyed snowy owl flies to my side and coos in her familiar hoots, five notes from our lullaby.

I grin and turn to Hermione, who manages to grab her book and put it away somewhere on her and is at the front of my stall again. I move towards the front in two strides and see her staring at the stag fur and antlers; the meat I'd debated over keeping — but with it being reaping day, I decided to trade it to the Greasy Git, a tall man with a sneering voice who sells medicine that isn't fake or watered down. I already had some healing salve, yes, but the Greasy Git not only has medicine, but actual _magical _potions that everyone wonders how he got the ingredients of, let alone the directions to make, that can last very long. He never gives a name since he only comes to Diagon Alley every few months, sometimes years, but he's always there on reaping day, so he's highly sought in Diagon Alley at present. He wears a large, dark hood that cloaks him entirely, but since his hair's long enough, when he leans down from his tall height to hand a potion over, people can see the greasy strands, and since he's a complete berk to talk with, practically everyone calls him the Greasy Git.

"How much are the antlers?" I hear Hermione say and I snap into attention.

"Well, I usually just barter for something I need, to be honest." I pick up the mirroring, intricate bones, glancing briefly at the four hooves and fur by the side.

"It's beautiful. Would…" she throws a look over her shoulder and I smile approvingly at her caution. It's obvious she'll be actually paying in Knuts or Sickles instead of the typical trade—

"How's ten Galleons, five for each?"

I blink, pause, and I'm sure I'm catching flies in my mouth by the time I realize the gold she pushes into my hands are _real _and _there _and I soon find myself quickly trying to push it back.

"_Miss Granger!_ Do you have any idea how _equal trades_ work around here? That's far too much—"

"Just call me Hermione, Harry," she says with a bossy tone, slashing the argument as she picks up the antlers, "and, really, pretend it's a bit of payback for your help. You know, from before," she adds with a wink and, with that, Hermione smiles prettily (despite the buckteeth), and slips over to her parents with a quick wave.

I'm bewildered by the money and her last comment by the time I finish business at the market, selling nearly everything but the fur since no one truly needs the stuff in the warmer season, I call Hedwig to me and head back to the Dursley's.

It's still a bit early, so I try to drag my feet instead of jogging back. If I was anyone else, I'd probably go visit some friends to kill time, but since I'm not, I can say, quite frankly, that I don't have any. Friends, that is. Being the small, scrawny kid with taped glasses since the Dursley family transferred here, when most of the kids already made the cliques of the school, is a huge holdback to make any sort of acquaintance. Add to the fact I'm the cousin of Dudley Dursley, who somehow grew close with this nasty rat-boy and two other goons by _bonding_ over a game of Harry Hunting, then, yes, of course people will want to be friends with a painted target!

…which is why I'm still mulling over why Miss Gra— _Hermione_, was speaking _nicely _to me.

I sigh and turn a corner into a familiar drab neighbourhood with identical houses mirroring each other. A door opens two metres away as I pass and Mrs Figg is stepping out with a dozen cats lining behind her. When I was five or six, she took me in for a night since Aunt Petunia kicked me out of the house. Mrs Figg is a batty old woman, who wears long raincoats in sunny weather, but for today, she's replaced them with a rather nice baby blue dress and matching slippers, her hairnet gone as her grizzled grey fly-away hair is tamed in a rather simple chignon, almost like Aunt Petunia's typical hairstyle. Two pretty black hairpins with coloured glass lining the tassels' strings are speared through the bun and the gems almost look real.

Reaping clothes.

"That's a nice hairpin Mrs Figg," I comment at her fence.

Mrs Figg looks up from her crazy cat murmurings and she smiles through yellowed teeth. "Why, thank you, dear," she quickly hobbles over, pulling one pin out, and I see that there are four genuine jewels decorating the top of the hair piece. There's a sapphire above an emerald, to the right of a ruby and diagonal to a topaz — Aunt Petunia had a jewellery box and somehow kept a significant amount from Uncle Vernon's little auction back in District 4, so I know my gemstones — and there's an 'H' stamped on top, like an emblem on a shield. It's real gold. And beautifully crafted.

It could keep a family in bread for months.

I take a moment to wonder why no one's stolen it from her and damning the Aurors anyway if Mrs Figg so readily displays it to random blokes like me.

"What does the 'H' stand for, Mrs Figg?" I ask as I realize I should probably fill in the awkward silence.

Mrs Figg smiles with painted lips and no teeth.

"Hogwarts."

I blink. Twice.

"Excuse me?" Was he hearing things, or did she say _hog warts?_ No, no that wouldn't even make sense—

"Hogwarts. One word, with a capital 'H' — a fetching name, yes?"

I briefly consider if hanging around animal company for too long was good for her health and simply nod. I'm still unsure whether 'Hogwarts' really counted as a name or not either. Unless it's for some skin disease.

"It used to be the name of a magical academy, you know. Hundreds and thousands of years old, but it's been lost to time and there are few who remember it."

I nod. There's no need to counteract someone who's already gone off the deep end.

"But at least the Ministry remembers the Houses at least, hmm? Britain's most prestigious school of witchcraft and wizardry, even if the Slytherins have mostly taken over and the Ministry, and everyone treats the opposing Arts with little—"

This was getting too much, even for me, so I quickly cut in, "Speaking of the Ministry, you sure are lucky to be older than the reaping age, eh?"

Mrs Figg dons a stricken look as if I'd just palmed her face. "Y-Yes, I am but…"

She shakes her head and swings back into her home, nearly closing the door onto one of her cats' tails. I suddenly feel rather sorry, unsure what exactly it was that I said, but my string of thoughts are abruptly cut off.

"Move over, boy!"

My eyes shoot over my shoulder just as Uncle Vernon lumbers past, knocking my off tangent. House Number 4 is just a few metres down, and I'm momentarily surprised my uncle was out for so long — normally no adult works because of this day, but Uncle Vernon says he needs more distractions, _especially_ for this day — but he'd normally be done before the sun was so low.

When I enter through the back, however, I overhear the last bit of conversation; turns out, Uncle Vernon had to stay behind at work today because someone higher up needed him to oversee that the mining background closest to Central looked _aesthetically pleasin_g in front of the Ministry cameras.

Tch. As if.

Coal and dust is as aesthetically pleasing as cat piss.

"—never mind that it's impossible to make _coal_ look good in any way!" I hear, snapping out of my thoughts. "Why, just looking at it for last year's Blood Games' chariot— _ouch! _Petunia!" Uncle Vernon suddenly cries as Aunt Petunia pokes him with a bobby pin that was slowly unravelling and expanding before stitching back up a nice suit of Uncle Vernon's that wasn't sold at their first and last garage sale.

Aunt Petunia only leans forward however, an ashen look whitening her features as she whispers into his ear, something that I can't make out without further effort in the art of eavesdropping.

"Boy!" Uncle Vernon suddenly shouts, startling me, his tiny eyes wide with whatever Aunt Petunia advised; apparently he only just noticed me at the corner of his peripheral vision and listening in to them. "Get dressed before supper! We need to be gone by the hour!"

I don't deign that with an answer and swiftly leave to get changed. Not that I have anything worth dressing up in — just some black bath-robes that one of our neighbours threw out. Aunt Petunia is always quite frugal, so she snatched the moth-bitten thing and handed it to me on my thirteenth birthday. The quality is good; only, the sleeves are frayed, the bottom edges are eaten, and it swathed my frame until this year, and still it sweeps the ground. It probably would've gone to Dudley, if not for the fact that Aunt Petunia hates anything Magical-related, and long robes apparently are 'wizard-like'.

Oh, she buttered the local Aurors and Magical merchants alright, but when in the confines of her home, when she's sure no one's looking, I'd catch her glaring death at King's Cross Station —the trains that brought in or out all Magicals that were too poor or too rich for the Mining District.

Only Magicals have passes in and out of their born District.

I think of Hermione's Muggle parents right then and a smile ghosts over. Or it used to be. Small changes, tweaks in the legal system like that are actually what really count, and it seems someone powerful up in the Ministry — with a brain — is slowly changing things. Revolution and rebellion fantasies will only hurt the rest of the Districts in the long run, but try telling that to the Muggles, the ones who brought the world to its knees in the first place—

_No. _I quickly slash that thought as I tug on a pair of fancy trousers — _useless _plain trousers without even a pocket for some coin — because I _know _this anger is misdirected. Muggles, lazy and brainless for the ones I've known, aren't all like that. Muggles are clinically proven to be the same as any Magical, despite what that Magical ponce on the advertisements with that charming smile, says. So what if they can't whisk decent meat or conjure up some clean water with flick of a stick? The magic-less just need to work on skill and strength — and through that, doesn't that make them worth _more _than a indolent Magical?

Quickly I shake these thoughts away — again, this is exactly what the Ministry wants. A way to plant hatred between starving workers without an ounce of magic and those who can generally count on a supper; this is what ensures that we will never trust one another. And even if they do, and start throwing up the rebel registration, people will tattle, and… Well, there goes another bloody bonfire with fingers pointing everywhere!

"It's to the Ministry's advantage to have us divided among ourselves," I used to say in the backwoods, with no one around except for the ears of my loyal owls.

…And yes, I know it's hypocritical to say that when I'm isolated, when I cannot trust a single one of my classmates in the first place. But how can I not be paranoid when the world really does seem to be after my head? When nothing I say or do can change anything?

I take off my hunting shirt and scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods with a wet rag, running my hand through my hair in effort to tame it; but I know it's useless, since my hair always defies gravity no matter how many times I comb it.

Once done grooming, I look over to my clothes pile and am surprised when I see a white dress shirt folded on the three-legged stool in the corner. Still thinking Aunt Petunia must've gone mad, I reluctantly button the thing up, since there's really nothing better in my own things to wear for today, especially since last-year's was already a bit small for me back then.

"It shrunk in the wash, and my sweet Dudders certainly won't fit in the thing anymore!" Aunt Petunia sniffs when I ask her, quickly turning her attention back to smartening up Dudley's outfit and patting his chubby cheek.

"Besides, my little angel doesn't need to wear white to show how handsome he is — right Pumpkin?"

Dudley, of course, makes an uncommitted grunt and reddens slightly under that sun-blond hair. A little angel? I stifle a snort. If she wanted a realistic comparison, Aunt Petunia should've looked to the closest farm and stuck a wig over anything that went _oink_. Pumpkin, however, does sort-of match the orange knickerbockers Dudley's sporting at the moment… but with the maroon tailcoat, red-trimmed boater and knobbly stick… Well, it's quite hard not to hurl. The ensemble is ridiculous. Like something that the—

I squash that thought as Aunt Petunia whirls in her pretty pink dress, because, though it's irrational, sometimes I think she can read my mind (or face or body or something). I don't remember her old profession before she became a stay-at-home mother, and, to this day, I wonder if she'd majored in psychology in the days of District 4.

"You can borrow one of Dudley's old loafers." She sniffs. "Those ratty old sneakers will not be in public Ministry eye on my watch, boy."

Sometimes, I wonder about her opinions, her _real _feelings about the Ministry. On other days, she praises and preaches. On off days, she rants and raves. On some days, she's as loud as the Whomping Willow.

On some days, she hits and shoves like the Whomping Willow.

When I finish cooking the overpriced meat and greens Uncle Vernon always purchases, the Dursleys tuck in while I sneak some time with their stove for my own supper. Frying up the wild vegetables and bird meat, seasoning both with salt, all of which I bartered for or caught myself, I snack on some good bread, knowing I'll still have tomorrow to hunt for more bargains. Hopefully.

Gulping down some tap water as I wait for the veggies to cool off, my eye catches the time. Wolfing down the stir fry — apparently, there's an official name for such a simple concoction in Aunt Petunia's recipe book — once its temperature is low enough to not burn my tongue, I take off, knowing the Dursleys are long gone.

They always leave ten minutes early, not wanting to be associated with me so directly, and as the sun hangs low and the shadows loom, I know Central must be almost full by now. I'm proven right as I see the hordes of men and women, Magical and Muggle. Attendance is mandatory unless you're at death's door. Before the sun disappears, Aurors will come around and check to see if this is the case — if not, you'll be imprisoned.

Looking around, I find it sad that they hold the reaping at Central — usually called King's Cross Station because of the weathered sign tucked by one of the buildings. It's one of the few places in District 12 that's nice enough, compared to the grim mines and posh shops. Once an ancient train station built thousands of years ago, we now use the outer building, the one with the roof caved in, along the many decrepit walls. With the mining district's low population, everyone manages to fit in at front, or at least a metre off on the cracked sidewalk. The railway and train station itself is inside, past the recently-built gates, where the Tributes will go through once reaped and finished doing whatever they must to do in the Justice Building.

Looking up, the typically pleasant building with its quaint broken-bricked walls, the bright banners hanging about — nearly hiding away the mines not too far off — has drenched the air with a solemn grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.

People file in silently and sign in. Watching this happen year after year, I notice the reaping's a great opportunity for the Ministry to keep tabs on the population too. Eleven to eighteen year olds are herded into the roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest at front and young ones towards the back. Family members line up around the perimeter, near the dilapidated walls, holding tightly to one another's hands. But there're others, too, who have no one they love at stake — or who no longer care, really — who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. I look away, just like the few Aurors on the side lines or standing security, just like the flashy cameras that 'coincidentally' skip over.

Most of the law enforcement here are more into gambling than the reaping itself since they don't usually have kids, and while the cameramen are on the other end of the spectrum — having two or three children — they're certainly not living in District 12 chancing their lives.

The space around me gets tighter as more people arrive. Latecomers are directed to the sidewalks, and though most can't see the happenings from there, the whispers and gossip manage to stream to them easily enough when the time comes. If that doesn't work, they can always look up at the ancient billboards, newly installed with televised flat screens donated by the Ministry. Standing in a clump of sixteen year olds from the lower echelons of District 12, even though I technically live in mid-class, I'm suddenly pulled off before I enter the male section.

"Harry!"

I look over my shoulder, surprised to see Hermione there, decked out in a pretty lilac-coloured dress and matching shoes. It seems she'd managed to tame her bushy hair into an elegant side-bun with an enlarged lilac flower pinning it together. In her right arm hangs a small multi-beaded pouch. I look at myself, comparing black pants, black shoes, black glasses and a white shirt.

"Hello, Hermione," I say, ignoring the odd looks the two of us are given by the rest of our grade.

She beams a bright, genuine smile, and it looks so out-of-order during this dreary, terrible day. I wonder for moment how many paper slips she has in the large, reddish glass ball floating up on the temporary stage set up before the Justice Building. Not as much as I do, I'm sure, as in the second ball, the bluish glass one for the boys of District 12. She's been here for less than a year — the authorities may have just dropped one or two since she'll be back in her own District soon enough.

Hermione is fiddling with her pouch's string ornaments when I shke out of my thoughts.

"I'd like to — well, I'd like to wish you good—"

Just then, the town clock strikes seven, and the mayor steps from the side of the four empty chairs and to the podium to read. I shoot a half-smile to Hermione before I'm pushed into the section of male sixteen year olds. From my peripheral vision, I see Hermione ushered a bit more kindly to the girls.

Then I look back to the familiar-unfamiliar sight of well-dressed District 12 boys. They ignore me, per usual, but they don't focus on the mayor either. I'm not surprised. It's the same story every year: the History of Mageía, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place once called Europe. About World War III — the Great Muggle World War. I stifle a yawn as the mayor lists all the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up land and the brutal mini-wars for what little sustenance remained, all while Muggle World Leaders threw bombs about and sent 'valiant' armies to fight other 'valiant' armies, with technological advancements and experimental monstrosities that simply were not ever meant to be. Then the secretive Magical societies stepped in and saved the few who managed to survive the War, the radiation, the uninhabitable areas and the deadly magical creatures and offered _everything — _as long as the Muggles paid their Debt. During this time, two great Lords rose in power and established Mageía, a wondrous Ministry devised of thirteen Districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens.

Then came the Dark Days — the uprising of the Districts against the Ministry.

Twelve were defeated, and the thirteenth was obliterated; now, all the Districts are paying the price for the rebellion that happened over seventy-four years ago. It all started when those non-magicals that somehow escaped or freed themselves from the Life Debts by a few sympathetic wizards; the Muggles thought it was wise to rally against the Ministry. Somehow, they gained support from all the Districts. Even a few of the High Families turned traitor and eagerly aided the group to invade the Ministry in attempt to overthrow the late Light Lord Dumbledore and Dark Lord Grindelwald, the Ministers of Magic and the most influential leaders of Mageía. The rebellion lasted seven days and seven nights, with crimson carnage laid on innocents and bodies strewn across streets. Although Light Lord Dumbledore did not survive, Dark Lord Grindelwald avenged him, completely annihilating the insurgents with a fearsome show of his magical ability and his strategic mind. With an iron fist, he designated the Treaty of Treason that gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and — as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated — it gave us the Blood Games.

The rules of the Blood Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve Districts must provide one girl and one boy, called Tributes, to participate. These twenty-four Tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena, a place somewhere on Earth that the Magicals purified of radiation and prepared with essentials, before erecting an impenetrable shield over it all with the aid of the best Wardscrafters and Unspeakables sworn to secrecy. Sometimes, they will prepare District 13's Platform, and that arena can hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland, and one year, it held an underwater arena, and only Magicals survived a day in that Blood Game. Usually, though, the competitors fight to the death over a period of several weeks, since, apparently, it's more entertaining for the Ministry to see manslaughter than human survival. And of course, the last Tribute standing wins.

To summarise, the Blood Games take kids from all Districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch; this is the Ministry's way of reminding us how totally we're at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. Whatever pretty words they use, the real message is clear.

"_Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen. Just as you pathetic Districts did to yourselves."_

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Ministry requires us to treat the Blood Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every District against the others. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their District will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, the Ministry will show the winning District gifts of grain and milk, and even exotic delicacies of the wizard kind, while the rest of us battle starvation.

(Or, at least, most of us, who aren't smooching off the old money of relatives hidden from overlooking authorities.)

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor.

Then he reads the list of past District 12 champions. In seventy-four years, we have exactly three. Two walk onto the stage as their names are called forth, the eldest champion first. A tall woman with dark hair pulled into a tight bun strides over as the audience applauds.

Minerva McGonagall has a very stern face, arched brows and hard lines, which amplifies her constant magnanimity and severe aura. Though old, she's held in great respect and fear; she is the Champion of the fifteenth Blood Games. The emerald-green robes she wears match her sharp green eyes, and they crinkle slightly when her lips thin, as if to compensate the tight skin as she quickly greets Dolores Umbridge. After one handshake, she moves over to straighten her pointed hat off to the side. I snort. Most know she purposefully crooks her hat over before the reaping for exactly that excuse.

When the mayor appeals for the second Champion, a dark man with shoulder-length, greasy black hair sweeps in.

Severus Snape has a stern face like the elder Champion, but his sallow skin and large, hooked nose garners less positive attention. He's thin, and in those flowing black robes, he looks like an overgrown bat, with cold eyes as penetrating as the tunnels the nocturnal creatures reside. He has a strong, authoritative presence, however, and when he responds to Dolores Umbridge's welcome, his voice is a contained and soft tenor, catching the audience's attention whether he wishes for it or not.

"Yes, and it is a pleasure to see you again this year, Dolores," the dry sarcasm drips as he tears his hand away from the pink monstrosity and flips his robes away to his seat.

The mayor looks distressed. He's always high strung, and since all of this is being televised, he thinks that with such aggressive Champions, District 12 may have another tax upsurge that cannot be afforded. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Dolores Umbridge.

"Happy Blood Games! And may the odds be _ever _in your favour!" A simpering, high-pitched voice greets breathlessly, making the hair on my neck stand on end; I've always expected some sort of croak.

Dolores Jane Umbridge is a short, squat woman that prompts thoughts of a large pale toad. Even with Muggle surgery or Magical beautification, nothing can be done with her wide, slack mouth, and I think stretching such a short neck is probably fatal. Her bulging brown eyes may have looked alright on a young child, I think, but it occurs to me that _those _can be surgically implanted without fatality. And then there's the perfectly styled brown curls and oddly proportioned (apparently _flawless_) body in rolling pink robes that would have looked stunning on someone without her face and half her age— and suddenly I halt to wonder: when exactly was she born? And then I quickly dismiss the thought with a _do-I-really-want-to-know?_

Umbridge continues on a bit about what an honour it is to be here, although everyone knows she's just aching to get bumped up to a better District where they have proper Champions. Not dry old ladies or greasy gits who degrade you in front of the entire nation.

Through the crowd, I spot Hermione glancing over at me with a bewildered look. I ghost a smile, because as far as reapings go, I just realize this must be quite the change to the annual ones she's seen back in her District. Hermione must have somehow seen the amusement I let off, because in the next moment, she scowls playfully and sniffs, turning back to the stage once it's time for the drawing.

Dolores Umbridge says with a childish, unrealistic cry that she always does, "Ladies first!" and crosses to the reddish glass ball floating just at her head level. She reaches up and in, digs her small hand deep into the ball and swirls around a bit before pulling out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and I swear a pin could drop as Umbridge crosses back to the podium and flattens the slip of paper, baiting the moment like she does every year with a fake,_ "Hem, hem."_ I don't feel as nauseous as I can see others are around me, because I don't know any girls that could be—

"Granger, Hermione!"

* * *

Yes. Parts are directly from the Hunger Games books, if you readers can catch some of the sentences. Oh, and have a Happy Halloween! (But you all ought to know that I'm trying to be a dentist, like the Grangers actually, so don't forget to brush your teeth!) —rayningnight


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